A Triptych for the Dying
by Saribelle
Summary: Death comes for us all in the end. Two Wardens return to the Deep Roads to answer the final Calling.


**I. Storm Gathering**

Tristan knows that he is about to become an orphan. He sees it in the sad crinkle of Mother's bright green eyes, the solemn set of Father's jaw. He sees it in the pitying looks the Wardens give him as he walks through the halls of Ostagar. Mother and Father do not keep their fate a secret as did the Wardens of old.

They come to him together, one cool morning as summer is giving way to fall. He is curled up on a stone bench in the courtyard, reading a book on the Grey Wardens of old. Over the edge of the book, he can see them approaching hand in hand. He is ashamed when a tiny dark part of him is relieved that the ceaseless dread of the last year or so is over. Certainty brings a certain comfort with it, even when it is intertwined with sorrow.

They are dressed casually for travelling, but they still look every bit the warriors they are. Before they even speak, he feels the lump tightening in his throat. _Don't cry, Tristan, don't you shame yourself in front of them._ He can see the tightness around Father's eyes, the strain of the Calling showing itself like a mask on his face. If the stories are true, he is not far from changing into something – well, changing.

"Please don't go," he blurts before Mother can speak. "I can find a way to help you. I've been reading about this Warden, Fiona, and-"

"I'm sorry, love," she says, opening her arms to him. "We would stay with you forever if we could."

"You can," he insists, knowing full well that they cannot, no matter how much he wishes it. But Mother only shakes her head and folds him into her arms. He buries his face in her white hair and squeezes her so tightly he fears that she might break. But she is as steady and solid as the walls of Ostagar, sheltering him before the storm breaks. Before long, Father joins them, wrapping his strong arms around both of them.

A great bell resounds through the morning quiet, and the fortress empties itself, recruits and Wardens alike pouring into the courtyard to surround their little family. When they are assembled, Gareth, who has just been named the new Commander, raises one fist solemnly in salute.

"Words are insufficient to honor two Wardens such as Alistair and Vani. Once the only two Wardens left in Ferelden, they have rebuilt this order to rival its former glory. They have restored traditions almost lost and upheld ancient honor through a dark time. Now they answer the Calling and go on to the Maker's glory," Gareth says. "May Andraste herself lead you into the Golden City."

"So say we all!" bellows a young recruit, pumping his fist in the air.

"So say we all!" the crowd repeats.

Their declaration echoes from the stone walls, leaving somber silence hanging heavy in the air like a raincloud. A few at a time, the recruits and Wardens come to speak with Mother and Father, offering their respects or thanks, some clasping arms with Father, others hugging Mother tightly. There are more than a few tears.

Tristan feels as if he is going to suffocate with the crowd closing in on them, and he weaves through them until he is standing alone at the gates. There, he leans against the cool stone and prays. _Dear Maker, grant me this one miracle. Don't take them from me. Just let me keep them a while longer._ But he knows even as he prays that his plea will go unanswered. Whether this is cruelty or kindness on the Maker's part, he does not know.

Soon after Gareth's proclamation, Mother and Father come to him one at a time. "We have to go now, Tristan," his mother says as she grips his shoulders. "Your father…it's very close now," she says after a hesitation. "We've waited as long as possible."

"This isn't fair," he says, squeezing down the lump in his throat and hating the childish tone in his voice.

"I know, sweet boy," his mother says, tears streaming down her cheeks. "But it is what it is, and we cannot change it."

As his father approaches, Mother kisses his forehead. She steps off to let them speak, surreptitiously wiping her eyes on her blue brocade sleeves. "Remember the things I taught you," Father says, his haunted eyes downcast. "Especially the part about girls. Don't ask them if they're female, or-"

"Father," he interrupts, throwing his arms around the older man. This cannot be happening.

"I love you, my son," Father says. "Every day with you has been a blessing from the Maker."

"You can't leave me," Tristan insists. _How will I survive?_

"I wish I didn't have to, I truly do," Father says, tears flowing freely down his cheeks now. Mother returns now, and they embrace as a family one last time. This is the last time he will smell Mother's clean lavender scent with her soft hair against his cheek, the last time he will feel Father's strong embrace protecting him. It is the last time he will hear their voices, reassuring him. They tell him again and again that they love him, and in their voices it sounds like the Chant must have sounded to Andraste.

And then almost before he realizes it, they are gone. They were once three, and now he is one, standing alone to face the world. As they disappear over the horizon, he thinks of a hundred questions he still needs to ask them. He desperately wants to run after them, and is on the verge when Gareth comes to him.

"Tristan, come with me," he says, his voice rough and blue eyes tinged with red. Gareth has been around since before Tristan can remember, standing in almost as a big brother. Tristan follows the stocky Warden into the fortress, barely aware of his surroundings as they pass through the cool stone halls. Gareth leads him to his parents' room and unlocks the door for him, then hands him an iron key. "They wanted you to have all this."

The great oak bed is covered with brilliant metal. Father's finest silverite armor, inlaid with golden dragons and polished to a mirror shine, is set out on the red quilt. Several beautifully crafted daggers and a sword are laid next to it, and a collection of amulets and rings are displayed on a fine velvet cloth. Mother's enchanter's robes are folded neatly at one corner, and without disturbing them he can smell her scent on them. These are the treasures they have collected over their decades as Grey Wardens. Of course; they would not take such fine things only to be lost forever in the Deep Roads.

When he picks up Father's sword, he cannot hold the tears back any longer. The silverite blade had been forged for him by one of the dwarven smiths and named for the love of his life: _Vani_. Dwarvish runes spelling his mother's name are inlaid in lyrium along the length of the blade. It is the greatest gift his father could have given him, a piece of both his parents in one. Its razor edge cuts through the tenuous thread holding him together. He collapses to the floor and sobs, crystalline tears falling onto the sword's polished blade. His strength is gone, and he is left with an empty suit of armor he cannot hope to fill and a sword he does not feel worthy to wield.

Gareth kneels next to him, one heavy hand resting on Tristan's shoulder. He looks up numbly to see the older man weeping openly. Without shame, the Warden drapes an arm over his shoulder and hugs him tight. They sit there for what seems like an eternity, brothers weeping for what they have lost.

When both of them seem to be completely empty, eyes red and swollen and hearts heavy as stone, Gareth hands Tristan a sealed letter. Numbly, he breaks the seal and reads the last words from his parents. It is written in his mother's graceful script, and faint water stains mark the paper here and there.

_Dearest Tristan,_

_The hardest thing to in this world is to live in it, __especially when those you love have gone on without you. But the sun will still set and rise as it always has, and the world will go on even when we have returned to the Maker._

_It is natural to be sad, to grieve. But your heart will heal and be stronger for the sorrow you have known. Take comfort knowing that we have lived long, full lives. We have no regrets. We have had so many pleasures in our lives, of which you were the brightest and most glorious._

_Remember the things we have taught you. Never go to bed angry, and never draw your sword unless you intend to use it. Do not withhold love or kindness. When you can do good, do it. When you love someone, tell them often, just as we have told you._

_Someday, we shall be together again. Until then, live long and well._

_All our love,__  
__A & V_

He reads the letter again and again, tracing their initials with one trembling finger. "How do I do it, Gareth? I don't know that I can."

"As they did before you," Gareth answers, smiling through his veil of tears. "One day at a time."

**II. The Eye**

Deep within the earth, the end is in sight. As he faces the end of his life, Alistair realizes he has been a lucky man. His life has not been easy by any means, but the Maker has seen fit to bless him in abundance. He has grown to old age – for a Grey Warden, at least – with an incredible woman by his side. Aforementioned woman had actually stuck with him for nearly thirty years and never turned him into a frog, not even in those unending summer months of pregnancy when she threatened it at least several times a day. They had managed to raise an extraordinary son who was made of the best parts of them both. Together, they had built a legacy to be proud of, restoring the Grey Wardens and giving Ferelden itself a new future. His has not been a life to regret.

In all honesty, he is ready for the grand finale. The nightmares are unbearable now, and he sees slavering monsters lurking in shadows even in his waking hours. Vani's constant presence and her gentle healing touch are all that have kept him sane in these last few days. The call is no longer a seductive murmur, but a nearly irresistible chant of _come to me my child come my beloved come_until he can barely stand it. He is exhausted, and he is ready to lay down this burden for good.

He smiles from his place by the fire as he watches his wife neatly stowing armor and weapons. Her auburn hair has gone completely white, and her face is marked with the fine lines of a life well-lived. But age has treated her remarkably well, and she is more beautiful to him than ever. He often teases her that she and Wynne must have shared beauty secrets before the older mage had passed years before. She only smiles mysteriously and attributes it to good elven heritage.

He is glad to have her by his side in the end. Part of him had feared she would die before now and he would have to do this alone, or worse, the other way around. They had agreed long ago that when he heard the Calling, they would both go into the Deep Roads. It was nothing so maudlin as Vani's inability to survive a few more months without him, though it would do his manly feelings some good to think so.

Several years ago, she had unexpectedly brought up their first visit to the Deep Roads. Over the years, they had retold their stories dozens of times at the request of their recruits and little Tristan. But that had been one they had both firmly shoved to the far recesses of their memories. Even at the time, they had simply not spoken of what had happened deep within the Dead Trenches, the monstrosity they had slain and the horrifying truth of its origin.

Waking suddenly in the middle of the night, she had shaken him awake.

"Don't want the Orlesian cheese," he had muttered, rolling over and slinging his arm across her.

"Alistair," she insisted, shaking him roughly. "Wake up."

He had complied immediately, the keening note of urgency in her voice sending a blast of adrenaline through his veins. "What's wrong?"

"Do you remember the Broodmother?" she asked.

Maker's breath, it had been almost twenty-five years. What was she on about? "I'd rather not," he said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Extra-large nasty beastie, lots of tentacles, nightmares for days?"

"That's the one," she said.

"What of it?"

"Her," Vani corrected, her voice eerie and distant. "She was a Warden once. Alistair," she said again, sitting up straight in bed so she could look down at him. "When the time comes, you cannot let that happen to me."

"Of course," he said. But she had leaned over him, arms braced and trembling on either side of his face. Her green eyes were filled with a wild despair that he had seen only once before, when she came to him with a witch's deal.

"Swear to me," she said. "You swear that you'll end it before they can do that to me."

"I swear it, Vani. On my honor." Neither of them had found sleep again that night, and for the first time, he had really considered that their final ending was not that far away. Thirty years had seemed a lifetime, but it had dwindled away to nothing in what sometimes seemed the blink of an eye.

Even here at the end of a long life, Vani insists that things must be done properly. She will not have their things strewn about and neglected. When she is finally satisfied with her work in the camp, she joins him by the fire, settling herself between his outstretched legs and pressing her back to his chest. It feels like a thousand nights before, sitting entwined before a campfire and talking until their minds turned to other pursuits.

As they watch the fire burn, they speak not of goodbyes and regrets, but instead laugh about memories long past. They recall the days after the Battle of Denerim, when Leliana had managed to plait bright blue ribbons into Sten's hair as the qunari recovered from his injuries in Eamon's estate. They recall visits to Antiva, with beloved Zevran leading them around the 'sights' – read: whorehouses, back alleys, and taverns – like an excited child.

They remember their first group of new recruits as they rebuilt the Wardens in Ferelden. They remember how they had wept over those that did not survive that first Joining, despairing that their foolish pride had cost these young men and women their lives. They remember placing the last stones and raising the griffon flag at the newly rebuilt Ostagar. They remember reverently laying a battered shield over a stone tomb, finally giving a proper farewell to the one who had brought them together.

They cry as they speak of their beautiful son and the anguish they have left along with their worldly possessions. Tears turn to laughter when they agree he will indubitably disobey their express wishes and attempt to become a Grey Warden. They know that there is no way he will fail, not with their blood coursing through his veins.

In all this, they have no regrets. They have been at this crossroads before, both literally and spiritually. Living as Grey Wardens in a Blight and its aftermath meant one simply did not leave things undone and unsaid. Theirs has been a relationship filled with grand gestures, love declared often and loudly.

Sometime before what they feel must be dawn – for who can tell here in the Deep Roads? – Vani turns to him and pushes him back gently, spreading slender fingers across his chest. They leave a warm tingling trail of magic as they go, tracing down lower and lower until-

"Sweet Andraste," he groans.

"Hardly," Vani laughs. "I'm sure she was much too proper for licking lampposts in the Deep Roads." He laughs with her as their hands trace familiar paths to pleasure, playing the same tunes they have mastered over the years. Their love-making is slow and sweet, a more elegant and refined rendition of their first fumbling moments nearly thirty years ago. Age has not diminished their passion for one another, even if it has sapped a bit of their vigor. When it is over, they fall asleep in each other's arms for the last time.

When they both wake breathless, crying out in wicked harmony to the deathsong of their corrupted blood, they know that the time has come.

"Well," he says, for what else is there to say?

"Well," she echoes. "Is it time to go out in a blaze of glory now?"

"A sodding _huge_ blaze, if you would be so kind," he agrees.

For the last time, she helps him into gleaming plate armor and kisses his brow before placing the helmet over his head. For the last time, he places a single, lingering kiss on the back of her neck as he laces her robes.

"Don't forget," Vani murmurs as she takes her staff from him.

"I won't," he promises. He hopes he will not have to fulfill his promise, but he will do what is necessary.

A few hours' walk finds them deep in the Dead Trenches, where several of the Legion salute them as they pass the point of no return. The Calling intensifies as they go deeper, until Alistair feels his whole body thrumming like a bow string. Vani grasps his hand, letting her clean healing aura wash over him like a warm breeze. He realizes how far gone he is when he has the sudden horrifying urge to rip her arm clean out of its socket. _Maker, let this end. Let me rest._

In their final battle, the darkspawn come at them in unending waves. They fight to the last, expending every bit of energy they have to take out as many of the creatures as possible. Vani delivers on her promise, conjuring pillars of flame that burn with pure white destruction. She has never looked more beautiful than she does enveloped in magic, hair flying in a phantom wind. Soon her energy flags, forcing her to her knees. When she falls with an arrow in her side, he stands at her back and fights off the smoldering darkspawn that come for them.

The monsters just keep coming, and eventually a blade finds its way past his shield and into the crease of his arm. Then another comes, puncturing his armor, and a mace destroys his knee, forcing him to the ground. He cries out in agony, and Vani brings up a magical field to protect them for a last few seconds. She is bleeding from a deep wound in her belly, and her golden skin is quickly taking on a deathly pallor. She grasps his arm and nods.

"I love you," she says as the creatures fling themselves against her shield.

"And I love you," he says. "It has been the greatest honor of my life to be by your side."

"And mine to be by yours. I will wait for you," she promises. She closes her eyes as he draws the dagger at his belt. Weeping, he keeps his promise to her. He holds her to his chest until she is gone, the mana shield failing as the last breath leaves her. A faint smile is on her lips at the end, and he presses his forehead to hers.

"O Maker, watch over and keep us in our final hours," he murmurs as the last of the shield fades, praying with the words that have been a comfort to him long after his days in the Chantry. "Lift us from the darkness and bring us into Your glory." It is only moments before the world goes white, and he can almost hear a sigh of pleasure as the final notes of the Calling echo into nothingness.

Finally, he can rest.

**  
****III. Daybreak**

It's warm here, with the afternoon sun beating down on a rolling green meadow. She sits cross-legged, twining her fingers through the grass. A ring of red roses surrounds her, filling the air with their sweet perfume. Everything is suffused in a healthy yellow glow, though there is always a tinge of green at the edges of her vision. Just beyond the corona of the sun, she can see a great black shadow like a thunderhead, but it does not trouble her. As she sits in her circle of flowers, she feels the sensation of being watched, but when she turns there is no one in sight. She feels safe, even with her strange watcher.

She waits. The sun sets and rises again, and she is still alone.

She finds herself frustrated. There is something on the edge of her memory, but when she thinks she has it, it slips away once more. She is supposed to be waiting, but for what? For whom?

Crimson petals begin to dry, now the color of dried blood as they fall one by one and crumble to dust. This brings tears to her eyes, though she does not understand why. She counts the petals as they fall, lying like dead soldiers in heaps around broken stems.

Still she waits. The sun sets and rises, sets and rises, sets and does not rise. She is still alone.

By night, the great black shadow is tinged silver by moonlight, and it frightens her. Still she waits alone in the dark. She begins to despair.

She wants to leave this place, to find another place in the sun. Again she feels the sensation of being watched, and an inexplicable sensation of comfort, of wordless assurance. She feels a comforting weight on her shoulders, but it dissipates as she turns to look. The presence whispers within her mind.

_Just a bit longer._

When she thinks she can bear the darkness no longer, the world begins to lighten once more, and the sky brightens, blazing pinks and oranges coloring the world. The sun rises again. The dead roses are reborn, tight red blossoms hiding their faces from the sun. When she touches one, she hears the presence again.

_Be easy. Not long now._

There is an electric tension in the air, like the calm just before a summer thunderstorm rips open the sky. She can almost taste the energy in the air. A warm breeze picks up, stirring the grass around her. Just at the edge of her vision she can see a faint shadow, but she is not afraid. Again, she feels the comforting weight on her shoulders. There is no one around.

_Have faith. Be still._

The waiting is endless. Why is she waiting? Why is she bound here? The sun sets, the sun rises, and still she is alone. Again, she feels the thrumming anticipation. A breeze stirs, and the sweet smell of roses fills her nose as the tight blossoms unfurl themselves, baring their faces to the sun. She could swear that she hears them sigh as the sun caresses their petals, setting them aglow from within. In the distance, the thunderhead has dissipated, and in place of the great shadow is a brilliant coalescence of light. She can vaguely see the outlines of great walls and soaring towers through the blinding radiance. Though the light is brighter than anything in this place, it does not hurt her eyes. Tears spill down her cheeks as she gazes at this distant place, this golden city waiting just out of her reach.

A touch falls on her shoulder. She turns, out of instinct, expecting to see no one there. Instead, a smiling face meets hers. Her heart leaps in her chest, and the world trembles beneath her.

"You waited," he says as she stands and looks up into his eyes. The man brushes away her tears with his thumb, then gently holds her face in his hands. Something in her is singing, though the words are just beyond her grasp. She is about to ask him his name, but before the question can cross her lips, he draws her in and kisses her. The world explodes with golden light and her heart bursts into aching song. As the light envelops them, she remembers everything, and they are finally home.

* * *

In section I, there are two quotes from beloved TV shows of mine. "So say we all," is a reference to Battlestar Galactica, while "The hardest thing in this world is to live in it" comes from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I mean high praise, and not plagiarism. :)


End file.
